The Ypres Times.
11
"THE WIPERS TIMES."
By an EX-FIELD OFFICER.
'Ere y'arepiperpiper All the winners Sensytion Full account o' the
big fight. Piper
The irrepressible young subaltern at the door of the mess beneath the ramparts did
it beautifullyhe did it to the manner born. It was a chill, raw February evening, and
everyone seemed dispirited somehowwe had just heard of the loss of two good fellows
in the battalion but that imitation London newsboy's raucous voice had a sudden magical
effect. It relieved the tension it woke us up to laughter. Everyone, even the skipper
moved to the door to join in the joke. We saw half-a-dozen grinning faces looking over
the subaltern's shoulder. He was actually displaying a newspaperonly one, alas
hot from the press.
It was a miraclethe thing had actually been printed in Y-pers. Our eyes drank in
the title, the advertisements, the editorial," the poetry, the stop press news like
thirsty men and some of us laughed so much that we could hardly stand. Then, as the
little sheet was threatened with destruction, so great was our eagerness, a staff-captain,
famous for his elocutionary powers, was deputed to read out the entire production after
dinner.
More than five years have passedbut the scene is vividly before me as I write.
The Wipers Times was funnyfunnier to us, perhaps, than it will ever be to anyone
who comes after usbut it was not all a j est. There was a strong undercurrent of something
else in it. There were things in that first number, as there were in its successors, which
struck a deeper note, as Reflections on being lost in Ypres at 3 a.m.," and many others.
But humorous or serious, it was just what we wanted. It seemed to us then, as it seems
to me now, a masterpiece amongst trench journals redolent of the very spirit of
the place and of us who dwelt in it.
Could anything be better than that parody of the immortal Elegy
A six-inch tolls the knell of parting day.
The transport cart winds slowly o'er the lea.
A sapper homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to Wipers, and to me.
Now fades the glimmering star-shell from the sight
And all the air a solemn stillness holds
Save where a whizz-bang howls its rapid flight
And five rounds rapid fill the distant folds.
Beneath the ramparts, old and grim and grey
In earthy sap and casement cool and deep
Each in his canvas cubicle and bay,
The men condemned to Wipers soundly sleep.
But there is more than parody in the soldier's recital of the grim realities of war,
as he found it in the Salient.
My soldier-soul must steel itself to these
Must face, by dawn's dim light, by night's dull taper,
Disciplined, dour, gas-helmeted, and stern,
Brigades, battalions, batteries, of paper
The loud report," the treacherous return,"
Division orders, billeting epistles,
Barbed Zeppelin wires that baffle G.H.Q.,
And the dread Summary whose blurred page bristles
With facts no German general ever knew.
Let the Hun hate 1 We need no beer-roused passions
To keep our sword-blade bright, our powder dry
